


Koko

by King of Novices (mykonos)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baby Jealousy, Baklava, Chaste Kissing, Daddy Altair, Daddy Malik, Family, Family Fluff, Gen, Implied Relationships, Kids, M/M, Parental Struggles, clingy children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mykonos/pseuds/King%20of%20Novices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the many hardships Malik had to endure in life, he never expected Tazim's jealousy to be among the toughest challenges he has to face.</p><p>BONUS: Try balancing at least four tasks at the same time. Now replace three of those with little boys. Still can manage it? Malik can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the mood for some daddy!Malik and moody!Tazim while on a bus and voilà!

Tazim is a child prone to jealousy.

When he feels slighted, he demonstrates his ill reception of being less favored with defiant rudeness. He lifts his tiny nose high into air and he is quick to reject obedience and Malik's voicing of concern.

He won't listen to Altaïr for a second.

It's strange that Malik has accepted Altaïr into his life with an uncanny speed but Tazim still refuses to. He is open enough by necessity, but it seems to Malik as if the estrangement has little to do with Tazim's accepting Altaïr as his new parent, and much more with a strange expectation that Altaïr redeem and prove himself in some odd way in order to rise in Tazim's eyes to this most elevated position by means of difficult ordeals. He feels sorry for Altaïr, and a little angry with himself.

In his negligence Malik had allowed Tazim's reception of Darim and Sef to escape his sharp eye. He simply assumed that boys of close ages would strike up a quick friendship as new half-brothers and that Tazim would learn to live with a toddler in the same way Darim had accepted his baby brother.

Instead, Tazim frowns on how quick this new family of his was to accept his baba and his bitterness targets his relationship with Altaïr. He is reserved towards his second father, insanely jealous of the boys, and desperate for Malik's attention. When Malik has none to spare, he quietly accepts. When Malik has some to spare for Darim and Sef, Tazim seethes loudly.

Malik knows disobedience (from Altaïr), spoiled defiance (from Kadar), and temper (from himself), and he answers each with a cool head.

Sorrowful sulking, however, is something Malik finds himself more difficult to face and handle.

Tazim has isolated himself in the furthermost corner of his little bedroom when Malik finds him (he is concerned, Tazim won't join the family dinner downstairs) and it's a sorry sight to behold.

"Tazim." Malik calls in a firm voice.

"What?" Tazim retorts in mirrored tone and Malik knows this child is his in flesh and blood and spirit.

This knowledge makes him smile fondly even as a gentle sadness suffuses his chest at having to witness such a display. If petty familial quarrels could only be avoided, life would be much easier.

Malik knows the fault doesn't fall on him this time, but for all his innocence he must address Tazim's jealousy in ways that would best appease the child.

He approaches in silent steps and Tazim doesn't protest, only lets him know of his endured endeavors with a few deliberate sniffs.

Tazim's nose sounds clogged and it feels like a stab to the heart for Malik to know that his son has been crying until recently.

He sits cross-legged on a patch nearest to Tazim and they are facing the deep blue corner peppered with a menagerie of stickers ranging from football stars to Dora the Explorer. Tazim had huddled up an entire zoo of stuffed animals which are piled neatly on one another in rows where tight borders of Tazim's little bubble beg for resourcefulness. The glossy eyes of dollies and animals aim at whoever deigns them a look, except for the puff of synthetic plush that makes a little toy gorilla. The ape is clutched securely against Tazim's sniffing form.

"Tazim." He beckons quietly without allowing his voice too much croon.

To his surprise, Tazim does lift his gaze and his adorable hazel eyes are puffy and brimming with fresh tears, old salty tracks rest on his plump cheeks.

Everything protective in Malik roars at this sight.

He answers his son's calls for attention with boundless affection.

Malik scoops him up into his lap with ease even when he feels the loss of his arm more than ever and Tazim's pliancy is marked by a broken sound of protest as he refuses being parted with the toy he clutches tightly against his chest. He quickly settles and is putty in Malik's hold.

Malik thumbs away the stray tears that manage to spill over and showers honeyed kisses on Tazim's perky little nose, across his forehead and temple, pets through downy locks of hair.

Tazim flourishes under his attentions and opens up to Malik like a budding daffodil. He leans up into the press of fatherly kisses and snuggles himself closer into the protecting warmth of Malik's embrace.

After the first tide of affection simmers down to gentle nuzzles, Malik cradles Tazim closer against his chest and breathes in the soothing scent of his child. Tazim slots himself against Malik with experienced ease and his little arm fits itself under what's left of Malik's limb in a tight clasp. The scruff of stubble on his forehead is a familiar and welcome sensation. When it seems impossible, he shrugs himself further into his father's chest, pointedly ignoring the way Koko cuts into the soft of his belly.

"Tazim?" Malik calls again and this time he gets a tiny inquisitive noise in reply. Malik cards his five fingers through soft locks that send the mild scent of baby soap up his nostrils.

Devils curse him, but he is weak in ways he shouldn't allow himself, weak against the demands of Tazim's wishes. He is the spitting image of Kadar's greed for attention and Malik doesn't have to wander far to find where this streak in character stems from (even when Malik himself was easy enough to handle in childhood, rarely caused problems).

But, by gods, he has to find a way to assuage Tazim's unfounded fears, or else he'd spoil him rotten into adolescence which he's not looking forward to (he barely survived Kadar's and he's reluctant to repeat the experience).

"Do you love Koko?" Malik whispers through the haze of cottony mellowness their cuddling has generated.

Tazim parts far enough to look up at him because of all the possibilities that's the last thing the child expects to hear. Tazim nods and Malik knows he has ignited the spark of curiosity he was aiming at.

"But you don't love your other toys."

"I love them, too!" Tazim answers in excited protest.

"But you love Koko most?" Malik says and receives another nod. There is some shuffle and shift when Tazim hugs his stuffed gorilla tighter against his belly as if to emphasize his claim.

Before Malik can find the most suitable words to explain his train of thoughts to the mind of a child, Tazim mumbles a question into the fabric of his shirt.

"Baba, am I your Koko?" And it's all Malik had wished to say.

A gleam of sharp mind shines through the gloom of Tazim's envy and Malik knows he will have to work hard to resolve this issue to help Tazim's intellect bloom through thorns of jealousy.

"Yes, " He assures between kisses to the crown of Tazim's head, "Baba has enough love in his heart for all of you, but you will always be baba's Koko."

Tazim accepts this revelation with eagerness and drinks up Malik's love.

He nuzzles against his parent's neck like a cub akin to the one that watches them from the corner and he looks forward to sleeping in his father's bed tonight after three lonely days in his own.

Malik doesn't often lament the loss of his arm—he's learned to live without it and adapted quick enough. He desires it most when he wants to cradle Altaïr's handsome face and kiss him stupid, remembers it vividly when he reaches out for something while his right is busy, misses it painfully now when he wants to hug his child with both arms and feel the steady rise of breaths while Tazim drifts off.

He hears Altaïr and the boys from the dining-room.

A shrill protest followed by the tinny clatter of jilted cutlery and the ensuing hubbub that reflects only a fraction of what had occurred downstairs. In his mind's eye Malik clearly sees Altaïr fussing over the mess Sef has made, and Darim with his sense of freedom sorely offended as Altaïr allows a toddler an attempt at eating alone while still opposing the prospect of Darim riding his bike sans stabilizers.

Malik will let Altaïr clear up the mess he's caused himself, will connive at his bad choices, if only because he's seen bitterness eat him inside out after past mistakes, has watched him mellow out only slowly over the years that came after his wife eloped with a wealthy Frenchman.

Between the two of them, Malik is the widower with losses far greater than Altaïr's, but Malik won't reprimand him because that would make him the worst kind of hypocrite, the one pointing at faults while mired up to his head in them.

Tazim doesn't hear the commotion, bribed into a peaceful state of slumber after the hardships and angry tears he's shed in the past few days.

Malik's thighs burn unpleasantly from the prolonged strain of his son's weight. Hunger creeps slowly up his stomach at the spreading smell of spiced lamb that wafts through the open door in slow currents. His spine tingles from the low bend. All this is but a trifle price he pays for a treasure of immeasurable value.

Because it's nonexistent in comparison with the safety and peace he feels while cradling his sleeping child in his arm.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tazim named his toy after Koko, the famous talking gorilla at San Francisco Zoo.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Try balancing at least four tasks at the same time. Now replace three of those with little boys. Still can manage it? Malik can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't have happened, but it happened in a spark, without my consent, and before I could put a stop to it.
> 
> Some chains for my brain, please?

"If you stop wearing nappies baba will make baklava." Malik had once fleetingly said, a statement uttered on whim and sparked by Altaïr's incessant moaning about Sef's clothing choices.

What Malik certainly hadn't expected was the awe-induced and wide-eyed look Sef had given him, the little 'oh' of his mouth that conveyed just how easily he could be bribed into obedience by the promise of sweets. He is still ensnared in that odd age between a toddler and preschool where he doesn't want to part with the comfort of needless nappies. How bribe has never crossed Altaïr's mind is a mystery Malik won't even begin to unfold.

Speaking of clothing choices, Malik has always been or tried to be cautious in ways of spoiling his children, but this has yet to pay off. Right now he balances between three tasks, three boys, all of whom are attention-seekers with no competition and of caliber clearly surpassing Kadar's.

Tazim is clinging onto him like a little lamprey, while Sef bounces on his bare feet in excited anticipation of promised food, and Darim waits upstairs for someone to aid him in finding clothes for a birthday party.

Malik is swapping between correcting Tazim's shift against his torso while careful not to stain his Super Mario t-shirt with sticky fingers and stuffing the rich filling of a home-made baklava into layers of filo. Koko sits atop the working counter flanked by a juicer and a coffee machine they seldom use (Altaïr brews the best Saudi coffee in his dallah) and keeps a watchful eye on Tazim and the baklava-in-making. It's a deceptively easy task, even for a one-armed man. Until Tazim moves his tired arms around his neck in a renewed grip and Darim hollers from upstairs for Malik's undivided attention. There is an entire pan of baklava already in the oven, almost finished. It's the one meant for the boys, while the one Malik is currently filling with more or less success is to be split between Altaïr and him, intended for their respective office colleagues. When you make baklava, you make it big, and you make it for anyone and everyone, such are the traditions.

Malik makes sure to lower the baking temperature and leave the in-progress baklava out of Sef's immediate range before he ascends the stairs to check on Darim with Tazim in hand.

"Babaaa!"

"Yes, Darim, I'm coming." Malik informs as he steps into Darim's bedroom while Tazim's legs tighten further around his ribs, in the voice of a parent whose patience and talent should be rewarded with a golden medal.

The bed is peppered with Darim's clothes and this cherry-pick hasn't even started yet but it's giving Malik a headache already. Tazim chuckles at his brother and shifts in Malik's arm to gaze down at Darim's predicament.

"Baba, I want my Batman hoodie."

"It's too hot for the hoodie."

"But—!"

"Darim, you won't be leaving that trampoline for hours, you will sweat and you will be jumping around in the sun, I won't have you get a heatstroke too."

"I won't get a heatstroke." Darim mutters indignantly but forfeits his favorite clothing item, "No one lets me do what I want." He looks up at Malik, a blend of residual pique and newly-born hope mixing on his face, "Can I wear this, baba?"

Malik eyes another of Darim's favorites, a pair of long trousers with a greenish camo-print. They are too long for Malik's liking, but the party is nearing and the baklava is waiting and Sef is unattended downstairs. Another pressing concern is how to solve this problem. Obviously, if he let his children's freedom reign free without a check they would opt for horrendous combinations or something altogether too inappropriate—like hoodies on glaring sun or thin t-shirts on biting frost.

A compromise is in order.

He wouldn't be as cruel as to curb Darim's freedom of choice nor stupid enough to let him decide from the scratch. So Malik selects a choice of clothes, a couple of trousers and shorts and a colorful variety of t-shirts, and lets Darim pick and choose from this somewhat limited assortment. Tazim assists in this arrangement and Darim is happy at not being ordered what to wear. 

After an appropriate combination has been chosen, Darim promises to return the rest of his clothes in an orderly manner and goes about packing his present. Altaïr should be back from shopping at any given minute to drive Darim to the birthday party.

When Malik arrives downstairs, Tazim is still stubbornly clinging onto him, Sef is still in the kitchen following the baking process like it's the most exciting prospect in the world, and the baklava is ready. The procedure of taking it out of oven is dotted with Sef's shriek of happiness and Tazim's inquiries into how long it needs to cool down.

While Malik is putting the second pan into the oven, a loud crinkling of a handful plastic bags alerts him to Altaïr's presence. He is too preoccupied with pouring a cup of honey syrup onto the baked filo pastry to follow Altaïr's entrance, but the sound of deposited bags across the expanse of the dinner table grates him, makes him scowl.

"I've told you to use canvas and paper bags for shopping."

"Forgot to bring them along."

"Mindless as always. Nothing's changed, I see."

Altaïr shimmies sideways and against Malik's back, envelops both him and Tazim into a wide hug. When he kisses Tazim's cheek, Malik feels his son lean away from his shoulder and into Altaïr's coddle. Altaïr then switches to recline on Malik's other shoulder, angles his head to imprint a kiss into his neck before he nestles his chin comfortably into the bend. Tazim wriggles out of their joined hold, fatigued by the effort it requires, and leaves them alone. Altaïr rests his arms around Malik's waist and intertwined hands across his apron, watches while Malik sprinkles a veil of crushed pistachios across baklava and arranges an array of lemon slices across it.

"Salaam." He belatedly greets, "Smells like heaven." His voice a nigh whisper breathed just below Malik's ear. This impromptu but not unwelcome nuzzle is interrupted by enthusiasm only a child can muster.

"Baba! Papa! Baklava!" Sef chimes, jumps an excited little dance and makes grabby hands at the counter-top without gluing his front across the heated glass of the oven, as Malik had taught him.

From the corner of his eye Malik closely follows the direction Altaïr's gaze slowly takes.

A reaction incoming in 3... 2... 1...

"Sef is not in nappies. What did you do?"

His expression is a crossbreed of scowling and wide eyes which just looks comical.

"A master doesn't share his tricks, habibi," says Malik, tilts his head sideways to surprise Altaïr's lips with a chaste kiss, one mingled with Malik's little smirk.

"My husband is a conspiring genius." Altaïr advances with unbound praise without prying into his dirty little secrets, overjoyed that Sef has at last dropped his nappies.

A mellow smile rests pleasantly on Malik's face.

While his family loves him back with at least half the fervor with which he loves them, he is ready to balance all weight of the world upon his shoulders.

 


End file.
